Hush
by two fish
Summary: Professor Malfoy is forced to confront a former student when the Department of Mysteries sends its youngest Unspeakable to investigate strange happenings at Hogwarts Castle. AU.
1. Chapter 1

I

The patter-patter of rain in the gutter and a chorus of quills scratching parchment was how the memory began. Next came the tangy musk of old books and moist ink, the fall of dust in grey light suspended, the throb of blood to a blister boiling fresh against her arm. Last was the familiar prick of his eyes boring into her, just as they had a month prior when his aunt carved her birthright into her flesh.

 _Father, forgive me. I can't…_

They had dragged her to Hogwarts a week later and shackled her to a desk four feet from his own. A silver "M" they had emblazoned above her breast to match the scrawled epithet bandaged and bleeding still beneath her jumper. And to his classroom they had assigned all others like her, and like her they were to sit in silence and profess in perpetuity the sum whole of their inherited sin.

But rather than bow her head in contrition, she held it up steady to meet his gaze.

 _I can't be sure it's her_ … he had whispered, hands shaking, the last time their eyes had met like this.

And how like a child he had seemed, kneeling over her in his parents' mansion, Lucius' hand clutching his shoulder, family ring gleaming against his white knuckles as he pushed his son's face closer to hers, eviscerating the eight years and all else that was between them.

 _You MUST be sure._

 _I can't be sure…_

 _Look again._

 _Hurry, please._

What she remembered most was the cold pristineness of the white marble floor—how hard and smooth it had felt against her soiled cheek—and the way her blood had pumped red and hot into its clean ruts.

 _You've taught her for two years!_

 _Father, I can't!_

 _Look! Look at her!_

 _It's time!_

She wondered if somewhere in the great alabaster halls of Malfoy Manor, her little stain remained.

 _It MUST be her!_

 _I can't!_

 _LOOK!_

 _FATHER, I CAN'T!_

 _HURRY, PLEASE!_

It made her wonder whom the current seating arrangement was meant to punish more. Perhaps he would even be made to kill her, too, in the end. She knew, somehow, in the way his grey eyes swirled against hers, that the same thought was crossing his mind at that very moment.

 _IT'S TIME!_

And for reasons she could not fathom, it seemed to be this shared horror that, like some twisted inside joke, effected a sense of familiarity between them.

 _IT'S TIME!_

 _IT'S TIME!_

 _"_ HURRY, PLEASE. IT'S TIME TO LEAVE _."_

She jolted into awareness as the Hogwarts Express let out a final screech. Her immediate surroundings returned to her in warbling flashes—the checkered pattern of the seat cushions, the yellow glow of the cabin lights, the dapple of cold November rain on the windows.

"Hurry, please, Miss Granger. It's time to exit the train. The students will be boarding soon."

"Sorry—I'm sorry," Hermione whispered hoarsely, the broad figure of the sweets cart lady swimming before her.

"No trouble, dear. Anything for the road?"

"No, thank you." She collected her thoughts and things and bid the woman goodbye, walked briskly onto the smoky platform at Hogsmeade Station, then out into the damp village streets.

It had been nearly nine years since she'd had occasion to visit the hamlet. After completing her studies at Hogwarts following Voldemort's demise, she had attended university abroad, earning two degrees before returning to London to begin her tenure, at the age of twenty-six, as the Ministry's youngest Unspeakable in three centuries.

Six months of training later, she was set to begin her first research assignment when all of a sudden the Department of Mysteries shipped her off to Hogwarts to investigate unspecified mysterious occurrences within the castle. She thought it very strange that an Unspeakble should be sent rather than an Auror, or that an Unspeakable should even be sent at all, given their customary role as reclusive researchers. She mentioned this, of course, to her supervisor, who only told her in a slow, derisive drawl that the secrets of Hogwarts Castle were not to be fumbled by the indelicate hands of rash jocks.

So there she was, satchel in hand, tugging her black wool robes tightly around her neck, the day's freezing drizzle landing softly on her head.

It nearly unnerved her to find how little the village had changed since the war. Its reconstruction, now many years complete, had seen most of the former businesses rebuilt exactly as they had been all that time ago. A few new shops were scattered here and there, and a memorial had been constructed to honor students and locals lost to the war. Still, for the most part, Hogsmeade had kept its original character.

She thought briefly about visiting Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes for old times' sake, but a glance at her watch reminded her that it was only ten minutes before she was to meet the Headmistress at the Three Broomsticks, so she trudged onward.

Her last correspondence with Minerva McGonagall had been brief and to the point. Having kept in touch with her former Transfiguration professor over the years, there was no need for pleasantries or congratulations. The note had read simply:

 _Miss Granger –_

 _I have asked that your Department send you to Hogwarts immediately on a matter of great concern. Please come to the Three Broomsticks this Saturday at noon. I have arranged for the Express to take you from London. Circumstances are serious._

 _M. McGonagall_

Several things struck her about the note. The first was that McGonagall had asked her to meet in Hogsmeade rather than Hogwarts. Hermione found this strange for two reasons: the Headmistress rarely ventured outside the school grounds anymore, and surely the best place to be briefed on the "mysterious happenings" within the castle was within the castle itself.

The second was that McGonagall had arranged for the Express to take her. Certainly the Headmistress was aware of Hermione's distaste for apparition (an aversion acquired after Ron's splinching incident in the Forrest of Dean), but as a general rule, the Express made only four trips to Hogsmeade per year: once at the start of each term (after which it returned to London for servicing) and once at the end of each term. The scheduled end of the current term was not for another four weeks. Hermione's suspicions on this front had been confirmed by her conversation with the sweets cart lady:

McGonagall was sending the students home a month early.

 _Serious circumstances_ _indeed_.

Finally, Hermione realized that McGonagall's letter had been dated prior to the approval of her reassignment. Whatever her concerns, McGonagall had been certain the Department of Mysteries would take interest.

Half-lost in thought, it took Hermione some moments to notice that she had already arrived at the Three Broomsticks. Shuffling quickly inside, she was welcomed by a wave of warmth and the dull roar of chatter. But a quick glance around the crowded tables revealed not a single familiar face, until—

"Yoohoo! Missy Granger!" She turned to find a wild-haired woman decked in dragon hide waving at her from behind the bar.

"Madame Rosmerta," Hermione said, after snaking around benches and tables to meet her. She had not expected such a welcome from the barkeep herself, having never known the woman very well during her school years.

"Told me you was coming, love," Rosmerta explained, flicking away the frothy overflow from a glass of butterbeer before levitating it to a customer.

"Who, Professor McGonagall?" asked Hermione, but Rosmerta made no reply.

"Packed today, just like old times," she said instead, squinting at the crowd, the wrinkles around her dark hazel eyes more numerous than Hermione remembered.

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "Do you know—?"

"Upstairs, Room 312." Rosmerta supplied abruptly, handing her a large, rusted key. Then, somewhat nervously, she added: "He's waiting for you."

" _He_?" Hermione suddenly realized that McGonagall had not specified _whom_ she was to meet. "I thought—?"

But that question too remained unasked; seemingly eager to avoid further conversation, Rosmerta had already turned her attention to two young ladies just arrived at the bar.

 _He?_ Hermione was left to ponder again. Perhaps McGonagall had sent the Deputy Headmaster— _what was his name?_

She found she could not recall. _But_ _surely that was it_ , she decided as she climbed the narrow stairs that led to the overnight rooms, her boots softly scuffing the creaky planks, stirring up tuffs of dust to catch in the hazy window light. _Surely it couldn't be…_

* * *

The only reason Draco Malfoy had been allowed to return to Hogwarts was the fact that he'd let Hermione Granger escape it. This after he'd watched her be tortured near to death in his own home, of course. But McGongall didn't know the latter, and Miss Granger didn't know the former, and somehow he felt it inappropriate to disclose either.

So here he was.

His presence had been the last-minute request of his desperate Headmistress. True to form, he had arrived half an hour early, planning in professorial fashion to look over Minerva's notes and prepare a substitute lesson plan of sorts for his former pupil regarding what would surely be a new entry in the next edition of _Hogwarts, A History_. But he'd only managed to drink half his tea and watch the rest cool, consumed in thought and memory.

How foolish he had been, to think the fates would let him die without forcing him to see her again, and then to think that he could face her when they did. He doubted now, the dreaded moment drawing ever nearer, that his soul would survive the exposure.

And so, with a swirl of his mug, Draco finished the cold drink and reached his eyes desperately into its dregs.

Reaching back at him, he saw, was a mangled vine of ivy, and he followed its broken thorns and dangling leaves until his mind arrived at Malfoy Manor.

His mother, he realized, would be eating lunch in the sunroom by the garden at that moment, alone, just as she would be for the next eleven years of her house arrest. Their sunroom had been one of the only main rooms of the mansion not trespassed by the Dark Lord during the war—perhaps that is why his mother, otherwise imprisoned in the belly of her albatross, spent so much time there.

The room was also light and airy, of course, with a marked lack of furnishings that somehow did not detract from its comfort or completeness. Having auctioned or donated much of their personal property to satisfy the family's war debts (and having exiled his forbearer's portraits to the attic to avoid their unrelenting ire), he and his mother had few items left to fill their ancestral void. The manor seemed to echo its own emptiness. But that sunroom, with its wide windows and unending view, seemed filled with everything beyond it.

Before his thoughts could return to his mother, Draco swirled the mug again. The scattered sodden leaves dispersed and rearranged into a pattern indecipherable. Draco sighed and in the pursing of his eyes, absently fingered the ring about his finger, turning his mind to his father in Azkaban.

The ring was, of course, the Malfoy family crest—a centuries-old heirloom his father had worn with great pride and relinquished with even grater bitterness.

 _You don't deserve it_ , Lucius had spat coldly before handing it over, knowing he could not take it with him into the prison. How Draco had wished that were true.

Sometime later, in a move he though entirely too clever for a government agency, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had charmed the ring to become an irremovable tracking device during his own ten-year probationary period. They could not know, of course, just how deeply that move haunted him. In his memory, the flash of the crest was the last thing he saw before the bloodied and horror-stricken face of a young student was thrust before him.

 _It's her, isn't it?_

And it was—always, unmistakably—Hermione Granger, whose blood and tears and dirt smeared his floor and pooled prettily beneath his shoes. It shamed him to know that his first reaction had been to think how strange it was to see a female student in his home, out of uniform. Her unearthly screams had brought him to his senses.

 _She's a pretty one_ , his aunt had cooed over the girl's heaving chest, rubbing her blood into her cheeks like rouge. _Ever earn any extra credit from Professor Malfoy, hmm?_

He'd wanted to vomit.

 _You'd remember a pretty girl like this, Draco._

And then he had.

He felt like doing it now. Frustrated with himself, his inability to focus on anything unhorrifying, and the growing sweat on his brow, Draco frantically swirled the mug again.

 _A hanging man._

And again.

 _A woman's still portrait._

And again.

 _The letter M._

And finally—

A knock at the door.


	2. Chapter 2

II

The lock turned quietly in the door and was at rest.

Unclenching her fingers, she lowered her hand to her side and waited. Garbled chatter from lower rooms filled the hallway. A bent maid plodded wearily behind her, cart following at her heels like an old bitch. But the chipped brass doorknob did not stir. No footsteps sounded from within. No voice called out. The door remained closed.

Whoever sat beyond it, she realized, was waiting for her to make the next move.

Blood beneath old wounds rushed hot. She knew then, without a doubt, that it must be him, and that this was his warning. Her stomach hollowed at the thought, bile rising brackish in her throat. But she would not be daunted. With every drop of resignation she had been shoring up for the past five minutes, she tilted her chin, brought her fingers to the doorknob, and eased open the door.

She saw him immediately. He sat hands clasped at a small round table, his wand purposefully laid in the middle of it and away from him. He had not aged a day. His clear grey eyes stared squarely into hers. He said nothing, only allowed her to dissect him with her gaze as she returned the courtesy. So intense was their exchange, she had to consciously force her senses away from him to perform even a most perfunctory security scan of the room.

There was something entirely surreal about the moment. Their last meeting so far removed and under such different circumstances, it felt as though she were seeing him now in another life. The fateful instant dragged on eternal until at last, with that slow caution reserved for wild creatures and the world unknown, Draco Malfoy rose from his seat and inclined his head in acknowledgement of her presence.

He knew better, she thought, than to bid her join him or to call her by name—the reunion of two souls such as theirs could not begin with empty pleasantries. Instead, he retook his seat quietly, folded one long leg over the other, and waited. His eyes never left hers. Knowing it was again her turn, she stepped over the threshold into his quarters and closed the door behind her.

The temper of his gaze allowed Hermione a safe guess at his preliminary observations. In stark contrast to the bedraggled fugitive flung prostrate at his feet all those years ago, this version of Hermione Granger looked every inch an official Ministry employee. She had worn all black, from the stiff black robes that fastened close at her neck and fell in straight pleats to her knees, to the black stockings that adorned her legs, to the low-heeled black buckle shoes that covered her feet. Her hair she had pulled away from her face and gathered tightly at the back of her head. The hand clutching her wand did not shake, and she would be damned if her small stature diminished her aura of command and intelligence.

As she lowered herself into the seat opposing, she flashed her cinnamon eyes again to his. The cue presented, he parted his lips and delivered—carefully, slowly, his words hoarse and soft as if he hadn't spoken in days:

"Our Headmistress sends her apologies. And me, in her place."

Somehow beneath the roughness, his voice was just as she remembered—a measured, aristocratic drawl, not entirely unpleasant. But lurking lower still was something new and dark—the past, she realized, churning ever violently.

 _And he's letting me decide whether to bring in the storm._

"They are accepted," she said slowly, her unspoken caveat hanging heavy in the air between them: _For now_. He received her answer with a faint nod.

"The Headmistress has also reserved a room for you," he told her, "next to this one. She expects you'll want to stay the nights here rather than at the castle, for reasons that will…become obvious."

She stared at him closely, running over his words in her mind. _Next to this one?_ He was about to tell her something unpleasant. She crossed her arms, her fingers brushing absently against the soft grain of her wand, tucked neatly within the sleeves of her robe. _Next to this one?_

"I trust the Headmistress' judgment…" she said eventually, to prod him onward.

But instead he stopped completely. An inscrutable expression crossed his face. "The Headmistress has asked me to assist you in your investigation." It was strange how even the expected could make one's heart stop dead. "Do you still trust the Headmistress' judgment?"

The subtext swelled again to crescendo. He was testing her. He wanted her to be sure.

 _Am I sure?_

"The Headmistress wants me to work with you?"

Each sentence of their conversation had come out slower than the last.

"The Headmistress thinks that Hogwarts Castle may be under siege from the Dark Arts. I'm quite experienced in the subject," he said evenly, eyes boring into hers, "as you know."

They both leaned back, the soft squeaks of their chairs filling the oppressive silence, their fingers reflexively searching their arms for the scars of their former lives. Hermione looked away from him, her eyes settling on the dim light splayed across the table and the long shadow of his Hawthorne wand.

"In private matters," she said quietly, "there is only my own judgment to trust." Her gaze squared again with his.

"And in this… _private matter_ ," he insisted, "will our partnership be a problem?" It was an honest question, she realized. "I will recuse myself, if necessary."

She looked away from him again and noticed a cooled cup of tea near his hands. The dregs inside it were scattered all about like a flock of birds flying off in a great wind.

"No," she said distantly, as though a sibyl might transmit a lost truth from the beyond. "That will not be necessary."

"If it becomes necessary—"

Her eyes flashed upward to his. "I have certainly never been shy about stating my opinion, Professor," she said firmly, in a voice more like her own.

"No," he agreed, his frown quirking in a manner indecipherable. "You have not."

The air seemed to shift with the settling of the matter, and they each let out a breath.

"The Headmistress plans to meet us inside the Castle in an hour," he announced. "The students and other professors have all gone."

Hermione nodded. "What should I expect to find there?"

Surely a thorough debriefing of all existing facts and circumstances would have been proper at that point. Indeed, though she did not know it, this was precisely what the Headmistress had expected of him, and what he had planned to provide. But how impossible it was to even formulate an appropriate sentence in her presence. It was like trying to swallow cinnamon, or wade through molasses.

"I think it best you see for yourself," he said as he decided it.

She frowned somewhat, obviously disappointed.

"There is only one other matter on which I need confirmation," he told her.

She raised an eyebrow in response.

"I assume Unspeakbles are proficient in non-verbal magic?"


End file.
